


Not The Loving Kind

by theblindtorpedo



Series: Memoirs of a Steward of Pleasure (aka Billy Gibson Fucks) [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (except Hickey doesn't realize it's love b/c he's Stupid), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Feminization, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 21:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30095277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a caulker’s mate in possession of a false name, must be in want of a wife.
Relationships: William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Series: Memoirs of a Steward of Pleasure (aka Billy Gibson Fucks) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2228004
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	Not The Loving Kind

He’s got Gibson down on a pillow of sail-cloth and three fingers inside him, up to the knuckle.

“Who’s this for?” he asks and Gibson doesn’t respond, only cants his hips up and whimpers. Gibson has his palm clamped over his mouth, splay of his fingers like a white spider-web upon his gaunt spectral face, but it won’t do much for all the noise that escapes Gibson's throat, evidence he is very much alive and at Hickey’s mercy.

“Who’s this for?” he repeats, runs a thumb along the heated rim of the steward’s hole, and uses the other to wrench Gibson’s hand away so it cannot stopper up the full, unadulterated moan he wrings out with another choice swipe of his fingers on that special spot deep inside. Still, with his mouth free Gibson does not respond, must sense the question is rhetorical. If he had, Hickey thinks, he might have left him unsatisfied. He does not think he could bear hearing the name ‘ _Cornelius Hickey_ ’ from Gibson’s lips in this moment of passion. _Cornelius Hickey_ , with his moon-fat face and Irish lilt, did not earn Billy Gibson’s most intimate secrets. Perhaps E. C. would have been better. No, he’ll make himself a new name, and he’ll have Gibson say it then, moan it, whisper it when the voyage is over, on that last night before he leaves. Until then, Gibson must not answer the question.

“There you go, open up for me, pretty girl.”

Gibson is fair like a girl. Soft ringlets and sensitive, red, pliant mouth, ever the better to make spill filth, and the most wondrous eyes Hickey’s ever seen, pale and filled with an ineffable romantic sorrow befitting a tragic heroine of some great play.

And god his cunny is always tight and willing to take Hickey in like he belongs there.

“All nice and wet for my prick,” he coos approvingly, before withdrawing his fingers and aligning himself. He surges forward like a cresting wave until he is seated full, whistles air through his teeth as he adjusts to the pressure. Hickey’s not often had men like this, most wanting to take him, but now he’s had it so often he does not think he could return to the submissive position. It is intoxicating to be pulled in, to be sucked and swallowed, for his dominance to be desired by this man. Gibson tugs at his hips and Hickey obliges.

“How sweet you are, letting me fuck you on your back like a maiden, a darling young bride for me. Just me.“

“Mm, ah- good, right there-”

Hickey opens his eyes and gazes down into Gibson’s face. His lips are parted like a budding flower and a delicate blush spread underneath faded freckles. Hickey strokes his cheek.

Gibson startles like a horse, eyes snap free of pleasure to fix Hickey with a wary, defensive gaze, and Hickey doesn’t like that, not one bit. So, he leans down to drag teeth and lips over the incline of Gibson’s shoulder, sure to leave a bruise like a string of jewels, punctuated by a few more thrusts to leave the other man gasping against his cheek and Hickey raises to see there, that is much better, the sweetness has returned to Gibson’s face, lost again in the spirit of their bodies moving together. Hickey hovers his lips over Gibson’s, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. Hickey waits and teases. He likes to give Gibson choices.

Gibson leans up to kiss him as if it is second nature. Hickey’s blood sings in victory.

He never kissed before Gibson. This too is remarkable, in how organically their tongues slide and dance against each other, how they can moan into each other’s mouths, share the same air as if they were one being.

“What a good sweetheart you are, taking my cock so deep.” Hickey growls when they part, continuing his barrage of thrusts so Gibson writhes and rakes his fingernails over Hickey’s back.

“Oh, oh, please-just-”

“Like to keep you somewhere just for me, would you like that, love?”

He does not know where this reservoir of words originates, this litany deep from within, that feels so natural in the way it bursts forth and fans his own arousal into searing conflagration. He does not mention the vision of a bed draped in diaphanous curtains and Gibson wrapped in silk robe like a present to unwrap. In these fantasies they are not always fucking. Sometimes Gibson simply kneels and removes Hickey’s shoes, sometimes he envisions a kiss in tender greeting rather than wet with lust, or hands on his back that don’t demand pleasure, but only wish to help him into a clean shirt. Gibson, of course, would have laundered it himself, would not trust someone else with such an important task. Hickey feels a seething jealousy towards the Lieutenants, those who have Gibson at their beck and call, who could fuck him in the comfort of their berths if they so chose. He does not think of these things outside their time together, but unbidden these thoughts come when he has Gibson underneath him.

“Yes," Gibson responds, "I-I’ll be your dirty little thing, your whore-” Hickey is pierced with a sudden white-hot lance of anger. He slaps Gibson’s thigh, jerks his hips so hard it must hurt to be stabbed by Hickey’s cock, but Gibson only groans at the rough treatment. Nausea in his gut, Hickey is desperate for it all to be over and moves to chase his own crisis with animal ferocity until he spills his seed deep inside the other man. Hickey hopes Gibson aches later when he washes himself out.

He withdraws too soon. As their bodies separate, the sudden lack of contact makes him feel colder than before they started. Gibson remains prone, gleaming semen spilling out of him as he frigs himself desperately.

What elegant hands he has. They ought to be adorned with rings.

Hickey never considered matrimony. He knew from the start it was not in the cards for him from the way the boys turned his head, but beyond that the mere concept was anathema to him. To be so chained to another was at best an inconvenience, at worst a disaster, even if there were moments of pleasure in between. When they reach the Sandwich Islands he knows he will leave Gibson behind, even if Gibson pleads on his hands and knees. He rather likes that image. He’d wipe away Gibson’s tears and tell him of all the great things he’d do. Alone. Like the original Cornelius Hickey, Gibson is just another man to be stepped upon, to be used in the service of his journey, his self-idealization.

When they are back at work, Gibson is undeniably a man out of Hickey's reach. Unless one of them wishes to find relief, they are nothing to each other: acquaintances, not even friends. This is the proper way of things, as Gibson affirms after he's come by his own hands, under Hickeys gaze, when he does up his trousers and leaves without ceremony. Hickey thinks he is blessed to have found a partner so understanding. It is best, he tells himself. If he and Gibson do not think of each other outside these trysts there is less to distract him and here of all places he must stay constantly vigilant. There is much to learn. There are many fortuitous chances to be had if he can spot them.

But in the dim lighting of Terror’s hold, Hickey comes to understand why some men might wish to take a wife.

**Author's Note:**

> I may be a one-trick pony, but I’m having fun regardless. Comments and kudos greatly appreciated!
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines) or [Tumblr](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com)


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